


Wouldn't Dream Of It

by BlindBandit44



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Clueless Sherlock, Dreams, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Nervous John, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:23:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1854601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindBandit44/pseuds/BlindBandit44
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is having trouble coping with his crush on Sherlock, but once he starts dreaming about particularly hot make-out sessions with the worlds only consulting detective, John practically loses his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kiss of Death

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic is (slightly) based off the Green Day song "Fell For You". A few references to the songs (mostly in the chapter titles). It's a good song if you haven't heard it, but there is no need to listen to the song before you read.

I woke up completely drenched in sweat; my duvet wrapped around my torso too tight, with his name dancing on my lips, willing it'self to fly from my tongue. I held it in though, looking at my bedside table clock. It’s 8:30 AM on a Thursday, of course he’ll be up. He’s always awake. 

So, instead, I calmly, or as calmly as I can, untangle myself from the covers and put on my pajama bottoms over my pants. I take one last deep breath, and head down the stairs to the bathroom not even bothering to put on a t-shirt.

I try my best to avoid him, but my efforts are, of course, useless.

I make a beeline for the toilet, but I’m cut off by a six foot plus wall of solid flat mate. “John I need- John, you’re flushed and seem to be just catching your breath.” Sherlock lowers himself to my level. I hate it when he does that, mocking our height difference. “Are you having nightmares again?” He brings his face right next to mine and squints, as if looking for the answer. Hell, it’s Sherlock, what am I saying? There is an answer and he can pull it out of thin air. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah! Nightmares, right. I gotta use the loo, Sherlock, so if you could let-”

“No, I need you to help me with my experiment, your bodily functions must wait.” Sherlock tells me, straightening his back and giving me a look of complete boredom.

I let out a loud groan as I push by him, “That’s not how it works Sherlock. You have to wait for me. Give me five minutes in the bathroom and I’ll help you with your bloody experiment.” And then I’m in the bathroom and slamming the door before he can argue with me. 

I take a glance at my reflection in the mirror and find he was right. I’m still flushed, my face and chest still splotchy. The nightmare facade was a good cover up, probably one I wouldn’t have come up with fast enough if Sherlock hadn’t suggested it. I once again try to slow my breathing, not allowing my mind to think about the dream. It’s not important anyway. It’s just a dream, not like it would ever happen.

I quickly relieve myself and brush my teeth before heading back out the door. “Sherlock, will this experiment take long? Should I go grab a t-shirt?” I yell down the hall, hesitating at the end of the steps that lead up to my bedroom. 

“No, now hurry up, John.” I hear Sherlock impatiently call from the kitchen.   
I quickly walk into the kitchen and see Sherlock hunched over the microscope, flipping rapidly through one of the various chemistry books he owns. When he looks up to see me, a small smile plays across his lips, and I can’t help but blush slightly. “You need me?” I say evenly, willing away the pink from my cheeks.

“Yes. I seem to be rather fatigued, I never made it to bed last night.” I lift an eyebrow in response, noticing that he had at some point changed into his pajamas, but he continued, ignoring the look I gave him, “And I require tea or coffee. Yours specifically. Mrs. Hudson’s tea is no where near the quality of yours.” And with that, Sherlock is back to being slouched over his microscope. 

I roll my eyes, “Is that your way of buttering me up then? A half-assed attempt at a compliment? Luckily for you, tea does sound lovely at the moment. But this isn't exactly what I would count as ‘helping you with an experiment’.” I walk over to the kettle and fill it with water.

“I’ve just stated a fact, John. Don’t confuse it as some sort of endearment.” Sherlock tells me, adding a sneer to the last word and never taking his eyes off the microscope.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I sigh in response, probably sounding a lot more pathetic than I should let on, while thinking of the irony of the situation. I chuckle a bit as I grab two mugs and tea.

“Something funny?” Sherlock asks, looking up from his microscope again. 

“No, no. Just remembered a dream I had last night.” I cough, covering another laugh as I turn around and continue preparing the tea.

“And was that dream before or after your nightmare? Or was this nightmare particularly amusing?” 

“Oh, before the, uh, nightmare.” And then I make my first mistake, I turn ever so slightly to see Sherlock, but his entire being is so mesmerising, I slowly turn all the way around, watching him watch me. 

Sherlock stops what he's doing and gives me a dissecting look. I know I must not sound very convincing, but considering I never actually had a nightmare last night, it makes sense. I feel my cheeks grow hot again, and now I’m blushing. I start fidgeting under Sherlock’s intense gaze. I’m just about to tell him how scary that is when the kettle whistles, making me jump.

Quickly turning around I finish making our tea, handing Sherlock his mug, and practically march into the living room, taking a spot in my chair. I don’t even chance a glance towards Sherlock. I know my heart is racing, and I know that he knows it too. I close my eyes and sip my tea. Keeping it near my face, letting the aroma surround me. I hear pages being flipped again, that must mean Sherlock is back to staring at that bloody microscope. 

I keep my eyes closed and allow my mind to drift, even though I know it’s dangerous. Last nights’ dream so vivid in my mind still.

It’s simple, I shouldn’t let it get to me as much as it already has. It was quick. Sweet, really. I remember being in a small alley, with Sherlock; both of us leaning against opposite walls. We were both out of breath and hunched over, with only about a foot of space in between us. Breathing hard and leaning against the alley wall, I assume we were chasing someone. A criminal most likely. 

In my dream I looked up and Sherlock was staring into my eyes. A look I’ve never seen from him before. It was almost sentimental. my breath caught in the back of my throat as he took a step closer to me. We both stood up fully, almost completely closing the distance between us. “John.” Sherlock whispered, placing his hand on my cheek. I remember him sliding it to the back of my neck slowly, gently, giving me time to back out. But I wanted this, I've wanted this since the day we met in that damned hospital. And slowly, Sherlock pulled me towards him. I stood a little straighter, and he bent down slightly. Our lips brushed together, his were soft and so inviting. I remember his body filling me, wrapping around me, our lips, still barely touching, as if deepening the kiss would break this spell. He was so warm, I was overheating, but happy. And that’s when I woke up, with Sherlock dancing on my lips, wishing it had lasted forever.

I open my eyes to find Sherlock sitting right in front of me, analyzing me with his eyes again. You would think living with the worlds’ only consulting detective I would get used to this. But it still startles me how silently he can move about, and how intense his gray-blue eyes are when they are fixed on knowing something.

“C-can I help you?” I stutter, still surprised that he is right in front of me.

“John, you’re lying to me.” He doesn’t say it as a question, so I don’t respond. I try not to get lost in those gorgeous eyes. It’s hard, but I’ve had my fair share of practice. And soon enough, he is speaking again. “You didn’t have a nightmare did you? You only said that. Something else has you flustered today. You aren’t acting like yourself.” His gaze becomes more intense, if that’s even possible, and he leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees and fingers under his chin, sitting on the edge of his chair. 

“Yeah, well maybe nightmare wasn’t quite the right word. But it was a sort of scary dream.” It’s not a real lie. I mean, the thought of me falling for my flatmate scares the shit out of me. I’m really not gay, I wouldn’t even call myself bisexual. I’ve only ever fantasized about women. Falling for Sherlock is an entirely new experience.

I was attracted to him right away of course. But soon enough it became more. I realized in the first twenty four hours of our meeting that he had left quite the impression. An impression none of my previous girlfriends ever could.

I was in denial for months. I was straight, God dammit! I wasn’t going to allow myself to fall for some bloke with high cheek bones and tight button up shirts. But then the dreams started coming. It was always just me and Sherlock, and it usually had to do with a case. Sometimes it would be just a smile he would give and it would send butterflies into my stomach. Other times he would take my hand while we were at Scotland Yard, claiming me as his. But last nights’ dream was the first time I dreamt about us kissing. And yeah, it scared the hell out of me.

“What was it about?” Sherlock asks, scooting just a hair closer, and intensifying his gaze. How he can do that, even with the most intense gaze, I will never understand. it's like all he really knows how to do is improve. It's just who he is.

“It was nothing, really Sherlock. I, uh, I need to go and get properly dressed. We’re out of beans and milk. I should go to the grocery store.” I stood up, grabbing my tea, which was still half full, but I didn’t feel like finishing it. So I walked into the kitchen and dumped the remaining tea down the drain. When I turned around, Sherlock was of course right behind me, still giving me a strange look. But I expected it this time, so I just allowed myself to push past him without blushing or jumping, or just plain making a fool of myself.

I ran up the stairs to my room and shut the door behind me. I flopped onto my bed with an over-exaggerated sigh. Why the hell was I letting this silly dream get the better of me?


	2. Midnight Hour

I was sitting in my chair, reading the morning newspaper, skimming over the most recent case solved by Sherlock and me. I thought about how I really should be updating my blog with this most recent case, but I was lacking in motivation this morning, and for some reason Sherlock was no where to be found. And how could I write my blog without him hovering over me? It's a sort of ritual for my blog entries, and no need to muddle it up now. 

I had flipped the page and had just started getting into an article about a bank robbery when all of a sudden my paper flew out of my hands.

“Well, good morning to you too.” I roll my eyes. Sherlock is breathing heavily and has just thrown my paper across the room. His eyes are brighter than normal, and he still hasn’t responded. He just continues staring at me, like he doesn’t know what to do next. “Sherlock, is everything okay?” I ask, slowly standing up so I can be sure he hasn’t done anything to injure himself.

“Wha-? No! No, John!” Sherlock practically bellows. His deep baritone voice is unwavering. But he looks nervous, his eyes darting from me, to the couch, to the paper he just threw.

“No, you’re not okay?” I ask, immediately turning into Doctor Watson, placing my hand on his forehead, trying to find a fever. But immediately Sherlock grabs my hand, looking at it like I have committed some crime by touching him. 

“No, John.” He says my name again, this time softer, but still with enough power behind it to send shivers down my spine. I don’t know why, but it sounds almost desperate.

“Sherlock,” I say with a serious tone, “can I help you? What's gotten into you?” I take a step closer, but I barely move and suddenly Sherlock's hands are on my waist and he is looking into my eyes like I have some answer he needs to know. I’m starting to get nervous, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to say at this point. It takes about thirty seconds for him to even respond. 

“You have, John. It’s always you.” Sherlock whispers, almost inaudibly. And if I’d had time, I would have asked what the hell that was even supposed to mean. But all too quickly, his lips were on mine. It was a rush of heat, and there was no time to question what had just happened. It was fast, and Sherlock turned out to be a lot more experienced with his tongue than he had let on. 

And then, suddenly and without any kind of warning, Sherlock pulls away, and putting his hands on my upper arms, starts wildly shaking me, “John!” He yells, sounding rather excited. “John, wake up!”

I open my eyes and find myself laying in my own bed. Sherlock is leaning over me, shaking me awake. “Oh good! You’re up!” His hands are gone, leaving my arms cold and missing their presence, and he is standing up tall once again, watching me to make sure I don’t fall back asleep. I try rubbing the sleep out of my eyes as I look at my bedside clock.

“The bloody hell Sherlock? It's barely even midnight- why did you wake me?” I groan and flop back down, attempting to pull the covers all the way up. But of course, as dramatic as Sherlock is, he yanks the duvet off, leaving me instantly cold, and only in my pants. “SHER-”

“There’s a case John! Be down in five minutes!” Sherlock yells at me, already gracefully descending the stairs with my blanket flung over his shoulder.

“You bastard!” I yell, jumping out of bed. But it was effective. I’m awake and grumpily putting on some clothes. How I ever fell in love with this man is beyond me. Apparently my brain hasn’t gotten the memo that Sherlock Holmes is a complete dickhead.

When I’m appropriately dressed, I make my way down stairs. By the time I hit the bottom stair Sherlock is putting my jacket on me from behind and pushing me downstairs once again, and out the door. “No time for tea. Lestrade has already sent me the address. We need to be there in ten minutes.”

I sigh, allowing myself to be pushed all the way to the curb, then Sherlock finally lets go and calls a cab. Once the cab has pulled up to the curb, Sherlock is again pushing me into the back seat, and quickly gives the address. I close my eyes and rest my head on the back of the seat, wishing I were still in bed. I feel something strong and warm on my upper thigh, I quickly look down and see it's Sherlock's hand. It feels almost intimate, but I know that can’t be right. I look to Sherlock for some sort of explanation. But he just responds with, “John, try to stay awake. I need you fully aware and functional for this.” And slowly removes his hand once again, leaving a sad, cold, Sherlock shaped spot on my thigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is a relatively short chapter compared to the last one. The next two chapters will be longer.


	3. Crush my Heart

I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. I debate pinching myself before I get up to make sure I’m actually awake. These dreams have been on a roll, and they are always so vivid. I can’t trust myself anymore. 

I quickly pinch my side under the covers, embarrassed that I’m so nervous. I didn’t have a dream last night about Sherlock, so it's strange waking up. I’ve almost come to expect them. Ever since the dream of that first kiss last week, I’ve dreamt about Sherlock and I kissing every night. 

Convinced that I’m actually awake, I get out of bed and pull on some trousers and a comfortable jumper. I’m avoiding going downstairs. I’ve been acting strange all week, and I know Sherlock has picked up on it. Every morning I come down flushed and out of breath he questions me, and when my heart starts to race and he is standing near me, I see him giving me a sideways glance like he knows.

But, I’m a soldier. I fought in Afghanistan, and I’ll be damned if some stupid crush on my flatmate keeps me from using the loo and making myself a good cuppa in the morning. So, I march down the stairs and keep my head up, determined to start acting like myself again. 

Surprisingly, I make it down the stairs and into the bathroom without any sign of Sherlock. Maybe he is actually sleeping in this morning. 

I take care of my business and then head towards the kitchen, but stop when I see Sherlock asleep on the couch, his curls in front of his eyes, and a child-like expression on his face. His long limbs are curled around himself, and he’s in a ball facing the living room. I can’t help but smile to myself. He really is beautiful. My heart aches, wishing I could go over there and brush those devilish curls off his face and place a kiss on his forehead. What I wouldn’t give to have the right to that one small fantasy. 

But, instead, I sigh quietly, turn around, and head towards the kettle and start preparing two cups of tea. 

At some point I start humming the most recent composition of Sherlock’s. He’s been going over the same melody for a couple of days now so it’s pretty ingrained into my brain.

I walk out of the kitchen and into the living room holding both mugs. I find Sherlock partially awake and giving me a sleepy look. “Morning,” I say, giving a small smile and continue humming. I go over to the far side of the couch, setting my mug down on the coffee table and lift Sherlock’s feet off the other end and flop down. Of course I expect his feet to then flop right back down onto my lap, and they do, hard. But that is alright. I find I’m rather cheery this morning. No strange dream to worry about, and Sherlock actually slept, and wasn’t shooting at the wall or anything similar this morning. It’s peaceful. Once I find myself comfortable I grab my tea once again and bring it to my lips. It’s still too hot to drink just yet, but I let the heat surround my face, and just breathe in the smell of simple black tea.

“John,” Sherlock says, shifting his body so he is facing me while still laying down “Your dreams have stopped. Thats good.” His voice is thick with sleep, but still has an essence of matter-of-fact-ness to it. I suppose it will always have that. 

“Yeah, it was a relief to wake up to this morning.” I say, giving him a smile.

“Are you going to tell me what these silly dreams have been about?” Sherlock asks, sounding a bit frustrated this time. But I just laugh it off.

“What, the world’s only consulting detective can’t figure out what keeps me up at night?” I start sipping my tea, it's cooled enough now. 

Sherlock’s head flops back down on the couch, while he stretches his feet and toes up and over the armrest of the couch. “Oh, I’m 98 percent certain I know what the dreams are about. However, I would like proof, just to confirm my theory.”

I chuckle again, but reply, “I’m still not going to tell you. But what if you tell me your guess and I’ll tell you if it's right or wrong. How’s that?”

“I never guess John!” Sherlock says, whipping his head back up to glare at me, but it only makes me laugh more, with his hair wildly springing in every direction, and his gray-blue eyes still glassy from sleep.

“Sorry, deduce.” I tease. “Go on, tell me what I’ve been dreaming.” 

“The dreams have obviously been about myself and you.” Sherlock hums, “And your heart rate has been shown to increase while I’m two feet or closer to you over the past week.” Sherlock lifts his head slightly, peeking at me from under his mop of hair, but quickly lowers his head back down, continuing, “I know it's you and me because you have spent your time struggling with either staring at me when you think I’m not paying attention, or avoiding me completely, which is completely absurd seeing as we live in the same small flat.” I take a large gulp of my tea, knowing where this is going. I should have known Sherlock had it all figured out. “I can presume that from your elevated heart rate that either these dreams are about me dying, or you falling in love. My initial conclusion was my first option, but remembering the first morning after your dream, you said nightmare was the wrong word. My death would be a nightmare to you, it's how your brain is wired. So, that leaves falling in love.”

“Sherlock…,” I try to interrupt, not able to make eye contact, and my voice is strained and soft.

“My deduction is that you dreamt of us either kissing, or possibly going further. I am unaware of your experiences with men, and if you are not gay, as you keep telling the world, then I am to assume you haven't had any experience in sex with a male, making it more likely that you have only dreamt of acts which your mind could compare to what you have done with women, so kissing and touching.”

I slowly place my mug down on the coffee table and stare off. I don’t know what to say, and even if I did, I wouldn’t trust my own voice. I should have expected Sherlock to know everything, and then just deduce my heart like it didn’t matter. Say things that were ‘logical’ and not even care to think about the effects. 

My heart is beating out of control, and I know I need to leave. Sherlock seems completely unfazed. Like what he has just said was nothing. 

“Was I correct John?” Sherlock asks in that low voice that really turns me on. He slowly snakes his feet off my lap and puts his toes under my thigh, trying to steal my warmth. I look at his toes, and then, convince myself to look at him. His eyes tell me that he already knows he’s right, and I know the only reason he asked if he was, is because he wants to hear me say it.

I quickly grab my tea mug, drink the last bit in one swig, and place the cup back on the table. I stand up, leaving Sherlocks toes open and cold once again. I march past him and say over my shoulder once I’ve past him, “Yeah, Sherlock. You were dead on.” And walk down the stairs, and out the door, slamming the door behind me. I don’t know where I’m headed, but I knew that staying in the flat with Sherlock would result in a conversation I knew neither of us wanted to have. 

Sherlock Holmes knows my heart belongs to him. He told me I loved him, and I confirmed his deduction. And Sherlock, the emotionless, mechanical bastard that he is, could never love me back. So, I, John Watson, just kept putting one foot in front of the other. Walking, and letting my brain turn off. I’m not going to let myself over think the lack of compassion one man has, and I’m not going to let it affect me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's all feels-y, I know. Stick with it! Our boys will make it out alright, I promise!
> 
> The next chapter will contain (an attempt at) smut, just as a warning.


	4. Work of Art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first attempt as smut so I hope it's at least decent.

As I walk around the block for the fourth time, I decide that it really is time to just give in and face 221B. I’ve roamed aimlessly for about an hour before I come walking back. But now I'm stuck going in circles because I’m too chicken to even go into my own home. 

Taking a big breath, and putting my war face on, I open the door and walk upstairs. When I get to the top, I’m surprised to see Sherlock still in his pyjamas, looking out the window. 

“You walked past this spot four times. Did my deduction upset you John?” Sherlock says. He sounds sincere, his voice low and quiet, not much above a whisper.

“It’s okay Sherlock. We don’t need to have this conversation if you don’t want to. I can’t control these bloody dreams, and I’ll just do my best to ignore them, alright?” Sherlock turns around, his face has traces of what I can only call emotions around the edges. It's a bit of a shock really. I’ve never seen him look so willingly vulnerable.

“Do the dreams mean something to you?” Sherlock takes a hesitant step forward. “I’m not good at this John. You know that. Emotions, not really my area.” I see the slightest hint of a smile playing on his lips, referencing our first night together when we chased that cabbie. I give a sad smile in return.

“I know it’s hard for you. But yeah. They do mean something to me. This scares me too, Sherlock. This isn’t my area either.” I say, holding eye contact, trying to be confident in my confession. If Sherlock is going to know my feelings he might as well know the whole truth.

“And, I suppose, you have assumed I don’t have the ability to return these feelings to you.” Sherlock responds, looking at me like he can see into my heart.

“I think you have the ability, but I don’t know if you have the desire to do so. I know you’re married to your work. I know that you can do better than me. But I can’t control my feelings for you, God knows I tried.”

“Desire. You’ve always been the romantic, haven't you?” Sherlock says, coming up right in front of me. “My wants and desires have always been about you. However, I have been much better at hiding my feelings. You, on the other hand,” Sherlock pauses, looking right into my eyes, pupils dilated, his hand coming to my wrist, taking my pulse, before placing his lips right next to my ear and whispering, “are an open book.”

And with that, I can’t take it anymore. I grab his face with both hands, moving his face so I can capture those perfect lips with mine. Sherlock is only stunned for a second before his brain kicks back in. He puts his hands around my waist, bringing us together, as he opens his mouth slightly. Allowing me to explore his mouth with my own. I move my fingers into his thick hair, feeling the soft curls under my palms. 

We trade off fighting for dominance over the kiss. It is full of passion and desperation. Both of us putting everything we have wanted for a long while. Trying to show the other this is real. 

Kissing women, I was always slow, a gentleman really. I tried to show respect, and never did anything unless I knew it was consensual. 

But this kiss is anything but. We both use teeth, tongue, and lips. Claiming what was rightfully ours, each other. I vaguely feel myself being turned around and pushed back. Before I even realize what is going on, I am already sitting in Sherlock’s chair, with Sherlock straddling me. The kiss, still full of passion, but now hesitant. Neither of us knowing how far the other is willing to go. Sherlock makes the first move, slowly grinding his hips once, twice. Then shifting his weight, just enough to give me an opportunity to repeat the action if I want, which of course I do, slowly grinding up. Both of us gasping into each others mouths at the contact and friction.

I move my fingers slowly in between us, I’m scared, but need to know how far I can go. I slowly run my fingers up his shirt and over his smooth abdomen. Light touches, only finger tips at this point. I stop, hesitantly, before brushing my fingertip over Sherlocks left nipple, teasing it, not even enough contact to really get a reaction out of him. And yet.

“J-John. I’m a bit. Uneducated in this area as you may know. I-I don’t-”

“Shh, love, it's alright.” I whisper into Sherlock's ear, trailing a few light kisses on his jaw line. “We have time, if you’re not ready, we can stop.”

Sherlock lifts his head, smiling down at me. “I am ready, but I won’t live up to your past experiences. And my parts are wrong.” Sherlock says, slowly looking down, I follow his eyes and see the obvious erection.

“Have you ever had sex with a man?” I ask before my brain tells me it's inappropriate.  
“I experimented in Uni, but ever got any further then hand jobs and blow jobs.” Sherlock tells me, his voice still gravelly with the promise of sex.

“Then we wont go past there for now, we have the rest of our lives, let’s not ruin this.” And with that the fire is once again ignited and our lips find each other again. I grab the offending fabric clinging to Sherlock's chest once again, this time lifting it, only breaking the kiss for the second and a half it took to get the cotton t-shirt over his head. At that point I waste no time, running my fingers over his beautiful porcelain skin. Tickling my fingers over his prominent ribs, his defined biceps and strong pectorals. Sherlock is lean, practically no fat, and the perfect amount of muscle for chasing and taking down criminals.

I feel the hesitant tug of my jumper, I can feel the want radiating off Sherlock, along with the embarrassment of not knowing. I quickly throw off my jumper, giving Sherlock the skin he desperately wants, but is afraid to ask for. 

I can hear the breath catch in Sherlock's throat as he looked down on me, “I need you.” He growls, heavily and gravelly, and it goes straight to my groin. I can’t help but throw my head back and give a slightly whorish moan. Sherlock wastes no time in starting to trail light kisses down my jaw, down my neck, nibbling here and there, allowing himself to taste me. He hesitates only slightly before teasing my nipple, and that gets him the reaction he’s looking for. 

I strike back, effortlessly gliding my hands down Sherlock's chest and landing right on his groin. And I’m rewarded with the best intake of breath, and the dirtiest moan I’ve heard in a long time. 

But suddenly palming him through his pajama bottoms isn’t enough anymore. I snag my finger into his elastic band, tugging only a little, giving him time to tell me no. 

“Just do it already.” Sherlock growls into my ear, then bites playfully onto my earlobe. And so, with that, I slowly drag down the suddenly awful piece of clothing, being sure to grab a handful of luscious arse on the way down, and also finding that a certain Mr. Holmes isn’t wearing any pants. 

“You cheeky bastard. Have you gone all day without any pants?” I ask, my voice coming out a lot more rough than I thought it would.

“I sleep nude, the only reason I have clothes on now is because you don’t allow me to run around naked after that one incident involving you yelling about irrelevant issues of privacy that had nothing to do with the situation. Of course, I see now why it bothered you so much and why you wouldn’t clarify further.” Sherlock tells me, giving me a cocky smile. 

Before I have the chance to respond, Sherlock’s nimble fingers undo my button and zip, and I suddenly have my trousers full of consulting detective in under three seconds. I hadn’t realized how hard I already was until Sherlock shocks my attention back to my eager cock. His nimble fingers feel like heaven and suddenly I am frozen; my hands still on Sherlock’s arse, my head tilted back onto the chair, and my face full of pleasure.

“Oh, somebody liked that.” Sherlock whispers into my ear, nibbling on the skin underneath it while skillfully running his fingers up my shaft and teasing my head. Giving the perfect amount of pressure and pleasure. 

“Yeah, how do you like it?” I ask, trying to sound innocent, but it sounded much too desperate. I quickly take my hands off Sherlock’s arse and onto his shaft, doing exactly what he had just done to me, however I’ll admit it is a touch rougher. But it gets the reaction I was looking for.

“Oh, we’re playing dirty, are we?” Sherlock says in his sing-song voice, ghosting touches here and there over my cock before slowly releasing contact and sliding down my body painstakingly slowly, never taking his eyes off mine and only stopping when his gorgeous lips were only an inch and a half away from my already leaking head. I feel it twitch to life, anticipating those full lips around my head. Sherlock licks his lips, finally breaking eye contact to look hungrily at my member. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve done this, John? Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this to you?”

All I can do is whimper in reply. I close my eyes, waiting, anticipating. The suspense only making me harder, if that could even happen. Leave it to Sherlock to figure out I love a good tease.

“Is this what you want John?” Sherlock asks teasingly. I furiously nod, almost giving myself whiplash. “Oh, thats not enough.” I can almost hear that obnoxious cocky grin on his face. “Tell me what you want from me.”

“P-please. Please Sherlock.” I shakily beg. I already know I’m close. I’ve been wanting and dreaming of this for too long to hold it in.

“No, no, no. Where do you want my mouth. Tell me John.”

“On my cock! Fuck, Sherlock, you know I want yo-” and suddenly I’m cut off, my brain stops, I can’t think. All I know is suddenly my head is hot and moist, and Sherlock's mouth is deliciously full. I bite the back of my hand, trying to hold in whatever my brain wants out. I push my fingers in Sherlock's hair, willing him to take in more, and he happily does, humming as he takes almost my whole length, working his tongue around like some sort of porn star, I swear to God.

And suddenly I can’t take this anymore, I feel my climax threatening. I pull slightly on Sherlock’s hair, trying to verbalize some sort of warning, but all I can manage is a cross between a whimper and a groan. 

Sherlock quickly comes off with a pop, “Keep moaning like that. I find it quite sexy.” And just as quickly as he popped off me, he’s right back on, licking, sucking, and feeling his way up and down. And this time he’s viciously jerking off, slowly allowing the two rhythms to become one. I can't help but stare, Sherlock’s beautiful mouth stretched over me, and his nimble fingers dancing over himself. I follow his instructions, taking my hand away from my mouth and allowing myself to make whatever sounds come naturally. It’s not something I usually do, I’m much more quiet during sex. But for Sherlock Holmes, I’ll do whatever it is that gets him off while thinking of me. I continue watching Sherlock, unable to comprehend how good he is at this with so little experience. Pleasuring himself and me, leaving me breathless and unable to form a single thought.

And that image is all it takes, and suddenly I’m seeing stars and shouting and talking nonsense. Coming hard into Sherlocks mouth, and he swallows every last bit, gives himself a couple last pumps for good measure, and comes into his hand just as hard as I had into his mouth.

I flop back into Sherlock’s chair like a limp noodle, while Sherlock flops on the floor. All that you can hear in 221B is the combined heavy breathing of the world’s only consulting detective, and his blogger. I hope absently that no one decides to visit right now, since the room smells like sex and is filled with two grown men, naked and collapsed from exhaustion, but looking ready to take on the world. It wouldn’t take a consulting detective to figure out what had happened here. 

“I’m ready for a shower and early sleep. Care to join me?” Sherlock asks, still slightly out of breath.

“Sherlock, it's only six o’clock. When are you ever ready to go to bed at six o’clock?” I ask, giving him a sideways look.

“When I’ve had sex as good as that, I’ll go to bed right after, every time.” And with that Sherlock gracefully leaps up and practically skips to the bathroom. “Are you coming?” Sherlock asks at the door.

“Everytime,” I reply, slowly getting off the chair and following my work of art into the shower, with an unaccustomed broad grin plastered on my face. I treasure this moment of bliss and savor the exact same look on Sherlock’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this piece! It was fun to write, extremely difficult at points, but completely worth it! I hope you leave comments telling me what you think! Thanks!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fan fiction, I don't have it Beta'd, so any inputs are welcomed and wanted!
> 
> For the record, I'm American and I attempted to use British language, so I hope I didn't screw it up to immensely (please let me if I did!!)


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